{"product_id":"ally-hughes-has-sex-sometimes-isbn-9781101984246","title":"Ally Hughes Has Sex Sometimes","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom debut author Jules Moulin, a charming, hilarious, sexy novel about what happens when a buttoned-up professor and her unbuttoned daughter fall for the same irresistible man\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Life isn't easy for single mother Ally Hughes. She teaches at Brown, where her class load is huge and her boss is a menace. At home, she contends with a critical mother, a falling-down house, and a daughter who never misses a beat. Between taking care of the people she loves, teaching full time, and making ends meet, Ally doesn't have time for a man. She doesn't date. She's not into flings. But then she meets Jake, an eager student, young in years but old in soul, who challenges his favorite professor to open up her life, and her heart, to love. What follows is a magical, passionate weekend... a romance that Ally is forced to end before it can even truly begin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ten years later, Ally's still single when Jake reappears—dating Ally's now-grown daughter. In this smart, funny, and heartrending tale, Ally is finally forced to concede that an independent woman can still make room in her life for love. | \u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eAlly Hughes Has Sex Sometimes\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Moulin has succeeded at writing a frothy romance, but she’s also entered into the record a never-married mom story that’s more empathetic than it is judgmental — and that’s a much more impressive feat.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e-\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A charming, madcap rom-com that will have you swooning until the very last page.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e-\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eEntertainment Weekly \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[D]elightful debut... The pacing is effortless, the dialogue witty and slyly sexy....From first to last, this book will charm you.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e-\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review \u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Jules Moulin’s novel thoughtfully considers how women juggle ambition, sex and motherhood.”\u003cb\u003e \u003cbr\u003e-\u003ci\u003eTIME Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A smart, witty, sexy rom-com in book form.\u003cb\u003e\" \u003cbr\u003e- \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eRedbook\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This strikes all the right chords.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e- \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eSan Francisco Book Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Moulin excellently balances different time lines as well as the story lines of other characters with ease and fluidity. The author has perfected the contemporary romance genre.\" \u003cbr\u003e-\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\"A fun, lighthearted, and sexy romp guaranteed to please…Moulin’s fast-paced, feel-good read is a winner.” \u003cbr\u003e-\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Funny, romantic, and sexy, Moulin’s debut has all the makings of a great leisure read.” \u003cbr\u003e-\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The tone is rather like if a 21st-century Jane Austen completed an early draft of \u003ci\u003ePersuasion\u003c\/i\u003e after binge watching Sex and the City. The dialogue is snappy and the trivia is elevated... This novel is for those looking for a sexier \"Sleeping Beauty\" set in the real world.” \u003cbr\u003e-\u003ci\u003eKirkus\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Moulin has a unique but completely relatable voice. Her dialogue is sharp and clever. This delightful, fast-paced book made me smile, and is sure to do the same for you!” \u003cbr\u003e–Meg Cabot, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eRoyal Wedding\u003c\/i\u003e and the Heather Wells mystery series\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Unstoppable from cover to cover . . . Ally and I are soul mates.” \u003cbr\u003e–Jeffrey Tambor, Golden-Globe Award winner for Best Actor in \u003ci\u003eTransparent\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It's rare to come across a story that perfectly combines hope and love and sex and motherhood in a way that can also make you laugh out loud. In Ally Hughes Jules Moulin has created a character we can root for. This hilarious and touching novel will have you on the edge of your seat until the very last page...hoping that Ally gets the happy ending she deserves.”  \u003cbr\u003e-Lucy Sykes and Jo Piazza, authors of \u003ci\u003eThe Knockoff\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Far too rare is the modern American fairy tale that arrives all wrapped up in polished language, keen observation, and joyful intelligence. Dear reader, if do nothing else this autumn, read \u003ci\u003eAlly Hughes Has Sex Sometimes\u003c\/i\u003e, and hope like the devil that Jules Moulin has many more books to come.\" \u003cbr\u003e–Beatriz Williams, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eA Hundred Summers\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Secret Life of Violet Grant\u003c\/i\u003e | \u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eJules Moulin \u003c\/b\u003ehas a master’s degree in journalism from Columbia University. She spent her twenties writing Golden Globe-and Emmy Award-winning TV series and several movies. She left Hollywood in order to work as a full-time mom and splits her time between New York City and Pasadena, California. This is her first novel.\u003c\/p\u003e | \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTHAT WEEKEND\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn the end, it was Harry’s fault.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHarry Goodman had promised to help Professor Hughes around the house that Friday. He’d also promised the Friday before and the Friday before that, too.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut it was New England and baseball season and 2004. The Sox were moving toward a ninety-eight, sixty-four record that spring, and five months later, that October, they’d sweep the Cardinals to win their first Series in eighty-six years.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHarry grew up in South Boston and it was a very emotional time. He said he could feel it—feel it coming: the loss of the underdog status, the triumph of victory, the shedding of the past and having to look toward an uncertain future after success . . .\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSo he was spending most of his days calming his nerves at Mulligan’s Pub.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly sneaked out through the back door of Robinson, dodging her boss, Dr. Priscilla Patricia Meer.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe headed east behind Mencoff, Brackett, and Partridge, and when she hit Brown Street, she turned left, hoping to God she could get in and out of Pembroke Hall before Priscilla came by or called.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe had only one. One student: Jake Bean. He was it. Then she would go home and meet Harry.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJake lost her after the lecture. In the throng of students and halfway downstairs, Ally went right instead of left, and Jake turned left instead of right and took the front door, walking to Brown on Waterman Street. He headed north and caught sight of her at Meeting Street. “Professor Hughes!” He broke into a jog. “Professor!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly skipped steps up the Pembroke stoop, heaving her backpack, cell phone to cheek, speaking to the desk assistant at the East Providence Police Department. “So they weren’t the guys? The guys you picked up? They were \u003ci\u003eother\u003c\/i\u003e guys?” She was confused.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Dr. Hughes! Professor!” called Jake from down the block, gaining on her.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly disappeared inside. She didn’t hear him. Despite the two lectures she taught each semester, the most popular campus-wide two years running, sold-out, so to speak, she didn’t feel like a \u003ci\u003edoctor\u003c\/i\u003e of anything, much less an assistant professor.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHer grades were late. On Tuesday, Yoko had called in tears. “Professor, I’m sick!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yoko? Where are you?” Yoko hadn’t returned her calls.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I can’t walk!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Willa told me—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“My papers are \u003ci\u003ewith\u003c\/i\u003e me. I took them to Omaha by mistake!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You’re—\u003ci\u003ehome\u003c\/i\u003e?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m so sorry! So stupid! So dumb!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Stop. Please.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m such an idiot!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Calm down. Please. Mail them to me. Is your mother there?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Mail?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’ll grade them for you. It’s no big deal. This is your \u003ci\u003ehealth.\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYoko paused. “Really?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Really. Can she mail them today? Express Mail? Ten, twenty bucks?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Mom!” Yoko yelled and then said to Ally, “Hold on.” Then, “Mom!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yoko?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Professor?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“How many left?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Only—only, like . . . twenty-one?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly absorbed this. Twenty-one papers meant twenty-one hours of grading, at least. She sighed. “\u003ci\u003eAre you asking\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eme\u003c\/i\u003e or telling me?” Yoko always inflected upward at the end of a sentence as if she were asking a question when she wasn’t. A way, Ally thought, to belie her brilliance, to seem less sure than she actually was. She had been first in her class at Yale.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYoko then said, “Twenty-one. But nine left to grade.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly smiled. “Nine.” She could do it. “Got it. Get \u003ci\u003ewell.\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Professor!” Jake called as he flew into the building. He climbed the stairs to the second floor.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly shut her door and locked it. She dropped her backpack, crossed to her desk, and gathered the papers from Omaha.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe was late to meet Harry, but Harry was always late himself, and not by minutes. Harry was always two hours late. When he showed up. If he showed up. “So they’re at large? Is that the right term? They’re still \u003ci\u003eon the loose\u003c\/i\u003e?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe story had made \u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eBrown Daily Herald\u003c\/i\u003e: “Robbery Crew Hits Nabe.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTwo weeks before, a rash of break-ins beset Ally’s street, two miles from campus. Three morning burglaries, three midnight robberies, three men in ski masks, all short, all armed. A neighbor had spotted the men in a pickup casing Grotto.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly had hired Harry to put a bolt in the back door and finish the jobs he had started in March.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“\u003ci\u003eAll\u003c\/i\u003e the jobs, Harry,” she’d said when they spoke.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis was the weekend. Harry would be at the house at one, and Ally would hole up to read and grade.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe loved the rental, the tiny Victorian, even if it was falling apart. For six years she’d paid Harry to replace shingles, empty the gutters, caulk the windows. She was sure it was rotting at its core, but did her best to keep it warm, to keep herself and Lizzie safe. It wasn’t a five-star hotel, she said, when her mother complained, but it was home.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut three short men with three black masks, this was worse than leaks and mold.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNot that she owned anything to steal. The rooms were full of secondhand finds: old wooden tables, older chairs; desks and beds that Ally had bought at Goodwill, Savers, and the Salvation Army in Newport and Boston.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe hung up as Jake knocked. She turned and froze. Could it be Meer? “Yes?” she called. “Who’s there?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Jake Bean!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe had called Monday and booked twenty minutes of office hours to talk about his failed final paper.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe moved to the door and opened it. When she saw him, she drew back, surprised. “\u003ci\u003eYou’re\u003c\/i\u003e Jake?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I have an appointment.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yes! Okay!” She moved aside so Jake could step in. “We’ve never met.” She closed the door. Jake turned and held out his hand. Ally shook it. “Sorry. With two hundred students—I can’t always put a face to a name.” Ally had thought that “Jake Bean” was the big blond guy who smiled all the time and sat down front.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe couldn’t believe it. This was Jake?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJake Bean was the boy in the back?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThey hadn’t talked, but the boy in the back had haunted Ally for three years.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe looked like that singer, the one from that boarding school—Exeter, it was; Andover maybe—the boy every Brown girl was drooling over: John Mayer or Meyer or Moyer, whatever it was, with that catchy little “Body Is a Wonderland” tune. Jake looked like him but much more handsome. He was the runway version of him. The rough-around-the-edges, childlike-but-tough, Hugo-Boss-model version of him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Professor Hughes, please. I never missed a lecture. Give me the credit. I’m begging you here.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly flipped through his paper. “Let’s discuss it,” she said kindly. Then her phone rang. She leaned in to see the incoming number. “Hold on, sorry. I have to get this.” She turned and picked up. “Harry?” She listened to Harry for a moment and grew annoyed. “Really, Harry? Seriously? Third time, Harry. Third time you canceled on me this month . . . Can you come and do the—?” She listened a moment. “No, fine. But, no, Harry. Don’t call back. Good-bye, Harry.” She hung up and took a deep breath.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Everything okay?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“No,” Ally said. “I have a girl turning ten in four days and a bunk bed that needs— Harry the handyman canceled on me \u003ci\u003ethree\u003c\/i\u003e times.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You have a daughter?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yes,” she said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m sorry.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly laughed. “This is my life!” She was upset. Lizzie had begged for a bunk bed for years. Ally had saved and finally bought one for Lizzie’s birthday. The bed had been hiding in the basement for weeks, in parts, in boxes, waiting to be built.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd she needed a lock. On the back door. She needed the downstairs windows secured.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe needed so much.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShaking her head, she slid Jake’s paper back to her lap and picked up a pen. “I’ll . . . find someone else.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What about your husband? Can’t he do it?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly looked up and then back down. It was a question and natural enough, but personal. “I don’t have one,” she said softly. “I’m a, you know . . . single . . . mom.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’ll do it.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What?” She focused on the page, on Jake’s profile of Anaïs Nin.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Your bed.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Thanks.” Ally looked up. “Sorry. What?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Me and my brother—we have a business. Bookshelves, IKEA. Dollhouses. Do you know the \u003ci\u003eskill\u003c\/i\u003e—the \u003ci\u003etalent\u003c\/i\u003e—it takes to get that Barbie elevator going?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly smiled. “I do,” she said. “That elevator!” Crazy thing. Lizzie had a Dreamhouse. “But let’s get back to the first part here . . . The part that sounds so . . . pseudo-academic.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJake’s gaze floated past Ally, out the window, to the trees. He was embarrassed. “I’m not a good writer,” he said. “I suck.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“No, you don’t. The ideas are great. Most of them. But it’s too long and you change tone. At first, you use this fake formal tone.” She looked up. “Why?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJake shrugged. “To sound smart.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“But you \u003ci\u003eare\u003c\/i\u003e smart. And then you change.” Ally flipped to page fourteen. “Your voice changes a quarter way through. You leave Nin totally behind. You leave your subject \u003ci\u003ecompletely\u003c\/i\u003e behind and start riffing for forty pages.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I get excited.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You go off point: tantric sex, Britney Spears?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yeah, sorry.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“This part,” she said and pointed to a paragraph. She read it aloud. “‘In pop culture, older women are disrespected, but I think they rock.’” She looked at him. “\u003ci\u003eRock\u003c\/i\u003e?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“They do.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“But \u003ci\u003erock\u003c\/i\u003e in a term paper?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You said to include our opinion,” he said. “That’s my opinion.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Or ‘Sick sex is a fast-food burger. Sacred sex is a porterhouse steak.’ Intriguing, for sure, but what does it mean?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“There’s gotta be love,” Jake explained.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“There’s got to be love to make the meat good?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Sex, like anything— Professor Hughes, if I may?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Go ahead, please.” Ally leaned back.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJake leaned forward. “It all exists, like, on a continuum. High cow, low cow. High sex, low sex. And Anaïs Nin, if you ask me, she was on the bottom fucking rung. Excuse my French.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“\u003ci\u003eFuck\u003c\/i\u003e isn’t French.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“So why this course \u003ci\u003edevoted\u003c\/i\u003e to her?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Well. I agree.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJake was surprised. “You do?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly sighed. “If a chair sent out an SOS for a popular class because the professor who normally taught it was off for the year, to research, you know, all the gender-based \u003ci\u003eleisure\u003c\/i\u003e habits of octogenarians in \u003ci\u003eGreece\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eItaly . . .\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJake smiled.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“If a low-on-the-totem-pole sucker like me—were asked to teach it, she might say yes.\u003ci\u003e Especially\u003c\/i\u003e if she were up for review.” Ally then stopped. “Sorry,” she said. “Too much caffeine. I should be quiet.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“She was an evil, evil liar.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Who?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Nin. Isn’t that—?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThen, on cue, came four fast knocks on Ally’s door. Meer’s signature rat-a-tat-tat. Ally froze. Then four again.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Coming!” said Ally, girding herself as she rose from the chair. Jake looked concerned. She crossed to the door and opened it. “Hi! Priscilla! Hi!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I left you a message,” Meer said, annoyed. “Where are your \u003ci\u003egrades\u003c\/i\u003e?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Coming,” said Ally. “Monday, first thing. One of my TAs had to go home.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Who?” Meer asked, arms crossed, anchoring a thick stack of files.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“She was—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Who?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Please,” Ally begged, “don’t make me say.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You have to stop babying them—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m with a student. Monday, okay?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMeer leaned in. “Where?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Here—he’s right . . .” She opened the door to reveal Jake. Jake waved.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Oh,” Meer said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. The seniors are done. I spoke to the registrar.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Fine,” Meer said and turned and walked off, her stacked heels pounding the floorboards.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly stood for a moment, unmoving. She then looked at Jake and closed the door. She sat down again and looked up. “Ever had someone love you so much, you can see it in their eyes?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJake smiled. “Meer?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“She wishes I was a Marxist. We approach—life—from a different . . .”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Angle?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“That. Sorry. Where were we?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“The liar. Nin. Married to two guys at the same time. Cheated on both.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly nodded.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“\u003ci\u003eRevenge\u003c\/i\u003e sex with her dad? Because he left? Who does that? She was a pervert and a stuck-up sociopath.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly smiled. “But she was an efficient writer. Unlike you.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJake shrugged and looked away. His cheeks flushed. “Maybe.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Please. Don’t be embarrassed. I’ll give you credit, but—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What? You will?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yes, but—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I love you!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I love you! Thanks!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly laughed. “But your writing! Jake. You can’t hand in fifty-two pages when I ask for twelve.” She picked up some files from her desk. “See? Look. Three years of you.” She pulled the files onto her lap and opened one. She took out a midterm and a final, fifty and eighty pages, respectively. “Remember these?” She handed them to him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe glanced down. “I—I wrote these freshman year.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I read them all. I kept them all.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Why?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“None of my TAs knew what to do with them! How to grade them!” Ally laughed. “This one, on the Triangle fire, for Women and Work. \u003ci\u003eEighty\u003c\/i\u003e pages.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“That was my favorite class. I was \u003ci\u003einspired.\u003c\/i\u003e What can I say?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly stood and pulled a paperback book from a shelf. “\u003ci\u003eElements of Style.\u003c\/i\u003e All you need—to keep it short.” She handed it to him, but Jake wouldn’t take it. “Please,” she said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I can buy it.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I have another.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You’re my Sex and Gender—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Jake, writing—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m not coming back.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly stopped and quieted, surprised.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I need the credit. In case I transfer. Ever. One day. But Brown’s wicked pricey and I don’t want debt. I’m not coming back.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly blinked. She understood. She had had luck in grad school at Brown: grants, scholarships, TA jobs, the lecturing offer from Economics. But now that her dissertation was done, she was drowning in undergrad loans. She placed the book on her desk and sat down.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“That’s why I want to fix your bed. I need the cash.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I see,” she said and thought about it. She wanted the help. It wasn’t that. She needed the help. “Can you do a dead bolt?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You have one?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I do.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I hope you spent money. I like Schlage. It’s got to be bump-proof.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly nodded. “There were robberies. On my street. Last two weeks. I need the windows—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Pins in the frames. Add a stopper to the ACs. Do you have ACs?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly studied him as he spoke. “I do, but can you put them in?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJake nodded. “Tools in my trunk. Parked on Thayer.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe door to Lizzie’s room squeaked too. Ally wanted to go in and out while Lizzie was sleeping and not wake her up. She knew the hinges needed that grease, whatever it was called, but she wasn’t sure something wasn’t wrong with the hinge.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWas he a conflict of interest? Jake? Hiring Jake? He took her classes, after all.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Professor Hughes,” Jake continued, “my mother was single. Four boys. I know how it is. You take care of everyone else, but no one’s there to take care of you. Let me help. You’d be helping me, too.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Jake,” she said, “I’m not handy. Harry was supposed to do . . . a lot. He was coming the whole weekend. Saturday, Sunday . . .”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJake begged. “Seven bucks an hour. I’ll do it all.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly studied him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJake arrived to every class before Ally did, and he always left last. He lingered in the hall or just outside as if he had questions, but he never approached, never spoke up, and never once raised his hand.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEvery so often, in the middle of her lecture, Ally’s gaze would land on him and he’d smile in a way that made her feel breathless and leave her thoughts muddled.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHis eyes caught and held hers as if he were making an assessment of something, of Ally or the lecture, she didn’t know which, but he seemed amused.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAt some point, she had decided to ignore him. The boy in the back, she told herself, he wasn’t there to learn. Boys in back rows, they sat there in judgment. They weren’t engaged. They sat back in protest.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe didn’t know that the boy in the back was Jake Bean of the “love letters,” as her TAs had called them—impassioned, for sure, but never ending.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Okay,” she said finally and nodded. “Let’s do it.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’ll follow you home?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yes,” she said and picked up the book and handed it to him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Fine.” Jake took it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Thanks,” she said gratefully.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“No, thank \u003ci\u003eyou.\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTEN YEARS LATER\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDo I have to use it for grad school?” asked Lizzie, out of the blue.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly was fumbling with the remote. “What?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt was eight o’clock, and mother and daughter were happily curled up on Ally’s bed. They’d watch \u003ci\u003eThe Graduate\u003c\/i\u003e while they ate breakfast for dinner on trays, eggs and crepes. That was the plan.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly wore boxers and Jake’s old T-shirt, the Red Sox one, the one she had kept, and Lizzie wore pajamas.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“The money she left,” Lizzie continued. Ally’s mother, Lizzie’s grandmother, Claire Anne Hughes, had died in March, four months before. She had left Lizzie money, meant for grad school.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Hold on. Shoot. HD one or HD two?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m rethinking Juilliard.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Hold on, Bug.” Ally punched the remote again.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“First of all, I won’t get in. We both know that. And even if I do, why spend four years memorizing Chekhov when I can be acting on TV? They say it’s the golden age of—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“My God, we’ve got a rover on Mars and we can’t create an easier remote?” Ally was annoyed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Mom?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yes?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I want Claire’s money, but not for grad school. Would that be okay?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly turned and looked at her tray. Her food was getting cold. “Please throw a napkin over my plate.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLizzie arranged her mother’s napkin, and her own, on top of the plate to contain the steam, to keep the food warm.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Finally!” Ally said. The movie began. She climbed into bed and pulled the dinner tray onto her lap. “Okay, good, so everyone thinks it’s about an era, but I think it’s about love and lust and what it’s like to grow old as a woman—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Mom, did you hear me? About the money?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOn the TV screen, a young Dustin Hoffman, blankly depressed, sat in an airplane on his way home after graduating from college.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What about it?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Can I have it?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“For what?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I can’t tell you.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly aimed and turned up the volume. “See, to you, he’s Captain Hook. To me, he’s Tootsie. If you want to be an actress, honey, Dustin Hoffman— We should watch \u003ci\u003eTootsie\u003c\/i\u003e! It’s about acting \u003ci\u003eand\u003c\/i\u003e women—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Mother, please. Forget the movie for two seconds. Please.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What is it? Why?” Ally turned up the volume again.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I spoke to Cybil. You know, my agent . . . She thinks—I should do something to my nose.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What?” Ally said, looking at Lizzie for the first time in minutes. “Like what?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“She thinks if you’re an actress and have to fix your nose, you should do it when you’re young like Marilyn Monroe. When you’re older—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Wait a sec. \u003ci\u003eWhat\u003c\/i\u003e are we discussing?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLizzie paused and took a deep breath. “Claire’s money.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You want a \u003ci\u003enose job\u003c\/i\u003e?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Please. Don’t freak. The whole thing costs eighteen grand, which is two thousand less than—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Elizabeth. Wait. I’m—wait a second.” Ally pushed her tray forward, grabbed the remote, and paused the movie. She turned back around and sat up on her knees, stunned.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLizzie’s face paled in defeat. “This is \u003ci\u003ereally\u003c\/i\u003e hard for me. To even bring this up to you . . .”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m— Let me— Okay, just—give me a second to recover from the shock so we can—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What?” Lizzie looked at her plate. “Discuss it? My mind’s made up.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yes, honey. \u003ci\u003eYes,\u003c\/i\u003e we should discuss it—as reasonable adults—because you need to know—there is \u003ci\u003eno way\u003c\/i\u003e I will ever—ever, ever—give you money to do that—\u003ci\u003eever.\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLizzie shook her head. “It’s not vanity, Mom. It’s a matter of physics.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Physics?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“We have two eyes. The camera has one. One lens. Without depth perception. So . . . so . . . it flattens stuff out. Whatever’s in front. A lens makes everything wider and bigger.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“And?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“\u003ci\u003eAnd\u003c\/i\u003e it puts on twelve pounds. It’s why actors have to be thin to look normal and why my nose looks bigger on-screen than it does in real life.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly softened and inched closer to talk it through, to set her daughter straight. She took Lizzie’s hand. “Sweetheart, first, your body is sacred. Second, you are a beautiful girl.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“It’s not about beauty. It’s about image. And how three dimensions translate to two.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Says Cybil?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yes, but—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly let go of Lizzie’s hand and rubbed her forehead. She scratched the back of her neck, panicked, on the verge of tears. “This Cybil? Is this the woman who—who told you—told you—to dye your hair?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Again. Highlights—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“And lose thirty pounds?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Mother. Yes. I just explained—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Said you should—told \u003ci\u003emy\u003c\/i\u003e daughter—at five foot ten, to hover around one hundred pounds?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Calm down. One hundred and five.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlly tried to stay calm. A technique she used when Lizzie was three. Instead of raising her voice when upset, she whispered. “I don’t know where to start,” she said softly. “The global thing or—or the fact that it’s not a tattoo. You can’t reverse it. Or that you’re letting some surgeon slice you \u003ci\u003eopen \u003c\/i\u003eto conform to—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m not conforming!” Lizzie interrupted. “I want to be in \u003ci\u003efilm.\u003c\/i\u003e I don’t have the chops for stage. And I want my nose to appear less big. If I want a big nose, I can build one. Nicole Kidman. She built a nose for Virginia Woolf. I want to ensure myself that range.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I don’t buy that. It’s not like your nose is \u003ci\u003ethat\u003c\/i\u003e big.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I want to do this. I’m \u003ci\u003egoing\u003c\/i\u003e to do this. With Claire’s money or mine that I save.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“No. Because . . . by the time you save that kind of money, I will have brought you back to your senses. I want to speak to Cybil.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yes!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“No! That’s— No! I’m twenty years old! I’m not five! She’s not my teacher!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“She’s telling you—incorrectly—that your nose will keep you from— She’s \u003ci\u003eshaming\u003c\/i\u003e you into changing yourself when you are perfect. As you were \u003ci\u003eknitted\u003c\/i\u003e in—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Don’t say it!” Lizzie looked at her plate in despair. She wanted the night to be fun and delicious and now her crepes and eggs were cold. “I know you think you’re right,” she said coolly. “Let’s stop. Give it some time.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“But promise me you won’t do it—without telling me first. Please.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Why? So you can lock me up?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Well, there’s that . . . But if you do it, I have to prepare myself too, Bug. I’ll be . . .” Ally turned away. Tears spilled.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLizzie closed her eyes. “You’ll be what?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Heartbroken,” Ally choked out. Then she raised her voice in anguish. “You’re funny and gorgeous! Heads turn when you walk down the street!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Weather got one! Weather was twelve!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Weather \u003ci\u003eneeded\u003c\/i\u003e one. You don’t remember. Her nose was bizarrely, abnormally wide. I’m not opposed to fixing cleft palates. I’m not opposed to—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Mom,” Lizzie pleaded, “please don’t cry.” She\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Dutton","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48338539610341,"sku":"NP9781101984246","price":22.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781101984246.jpg?v=1769572596","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/ally-hughes-has-sex-sometimes-isbn-9781101984246","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}